40. Zerion
ZERION
Ifind Kessara exactly where I expected—walking the stone path that winds through the heart of my orchard, her fingers trailing along the low branches heavy with ripening fruit.
The late afternoon sun catches the auburn highlights in her dark hair, now loose around her shoulders instead of the practical braids she once favored.
Three years have transformed her. The sharp angles of hunger have softened into curves that speak of regular meals and peaceful sleep.
Her clothes—a deep green dress that complements her hazel eyes—bear no patches or careful mending.
The constant tension that once held her shoulders rigid has eased into something approaching serenity.
She pauses beneath the same tree where I first discovered her, reaching up to cup a particularly large apple in her palm. The irony isn't lost on either of us.
"Admiring your handiwork?" I ask, stepping closer until the familiar scent of orchard blossoms and her skin mingles in the warm air.
"Actually considering whether to steal it." She doesn't turn around, but I hear the smile in her voice. "For old time's sake."
"I'd be forced to apprehend you again." I slide my arms around her waist from behind, pulling her back against my chest. "Terrible punishment would follow."
"Mmm." She leans into me, her head finding its perfect place against my shoulder. "What sort of punishment?"
"The worst kind imaginable." I press my lips to the curve of her neck, tasting salt and sunshine. "I'd drag you back to my manor and force you to live in luxury for the rest of your days."
Her laughter ripples through the quiet orchard, warm and unguarded in a way that still catches me off guard after all this time. The sound transforms the space around us, turning ancient fruit trees into witnesses to our contentment.
"Halvren thinks Bran will make an excellent steward someday," she says, changing the subject with typical Kessara directness. "Better than him, even."
I consider this, watching a pair of sparrows dart between the branches above us. "Halvren's not wrong. The boy has a natural head for numbers and an instinct for managing people that can't be taught."
"He's not a boy anymore." Her voice carries a note of wonder, as if she still can't quite believe how quickly time has passed. "Seventeen next month, and already taller than you."
"Barely." I tighten my arms around her, unwilling to admit that Bran has indeed gained another inch in recent weeks. "And his suggestions for improving crop rotation were sound, I'll grant you that."
"Lysa wants to study at the capital academy." Kessara's tone grows thoughtful. "She's been reading every book in your library about natural philosophy and mathematics."
"Then she'll go." I don't hesitate. "I'll arrange the introduction letters myself."
"And Tobin?"
"Tobin wants to join the guard." I chuckle against her hair. "Captain Draven thinks he shows promise with a sword, though his mouth might get him killed before he learns proper discipline."
"He gets that from me."
"Undoubtedly." I turn her in my arms until she faces me, pale eyes meeting hazel in the dappled light. "Do you ever regret it? Coming back that day?"
She considers the question seriously, as she considers everything. Her fingers trace the silver embroidery along my coat sleeve—a nervous habit she's developed over the years.
"I regret running away." Her voice drops to a whisper. "I regret the fear that made me think I had to choose between loving you and protecting them."
"You were trying to keep them safe. I understood that, even when it nearly killed me to know you'd left willingly."
"You didn't let me go." She raises an eyebrow, and there's the sharp-tongued woman who once defied me in chains. "You tracked us down like a hunting hound."
"I prefer 'determined suitor.'"
"Obsessive stalker."
"Devoted husband."
The word still feels strange on my tongue, even after two years of marriage. Strange and perfect and utterly right in ways I never expected when I first caught a desperate thief in my orchard.
Kessara's smile softens, and she reaches up to cup my face in her palms. "I love you too, you impossible man."
I lean down to kiss her, slow and thorough, tasting the sweetness that has so little to do with stolen fruit and everything to do with the life we've built together. When we break apart, she's breathless and flushed, and I'm reminded again how fortunate I am that she chose to stay.
"You should have known better than to disobey your husband back then," I murmur against her ear, my voice carrying that familiar edge of dark amusement.
She pulls back just enough to arch an eyebrow at me, that defiant spark I fell in love with flickering to life. "We weren't married at the time, if you recall. Technically, I was a free woman making her own choices."
"Technicalities." I dismiss her logic with a wave of my hand, though my grip on her waist tightens possessively. "You've always been mine, Kessara. From the moment I found you with stolen fruit in your hands."
Her breath catches, and I see the familiar flush creeping up her neck. After all this time, she still responds to that tone, that claiming. "Always so arrogant."
"Always so disobedient." I let my fingers trail along her jawline, watching her pupils dilate. "Which means you still need to be punished for your lack of obedience."
"Still?" she purrs, her voice dropping to that husky register that never fails to make my blood heat. Her finger traces a deliberate path down my chest, following the silver embroidery of my coat. "After all this time?"
The innocent act doesn't fool me for a second. She knows exactly where this is headed, knows exactly what that sultry tone does to my control. The minx has perfected the art of pushing my buttons until I snap.
"Any chance I get," I growl, and before she can offer another clever retort, I spin her around and bend her over the stone fountain at the orchard's heart.
The carved marble is sun-warmed beneath her palms as I lift her skirts, revealing the perfect curve of her backside. Three years of proper meals have filled her out beautifully, and I take a moment to appreciate the view before bringing my palm down in a sharp slap against her flesh.
She cries out, the sound transforming into a moan that echoes through the quiet orchard. Birds scatter from nearby branches, but I couldn't care less about witnesses right now.
"What do you say?" I ask, rubbing the reddening area with gentle circles, soothing the sting I've just delivered.
"I'm sorry, Master," she purrs, the title rolling off her tongue like honey laced with sin.
The word sends heat straight through me, and I reward her submission with another firm smack. "Good girl. Say it again."
Another slap punctuates my words, and she arches against the fountain's edge, presenting herself beautifully.
"I'm sorry. I'll be good from now on," she gasps, her voice breathless with want.
I smirk, admiring the way her body responds to each correction. "Is that so?"
She nods enthusiastically, then yelps as my palm connects again with her increasingly pink flesh. The sound she makes is pure music.
My hand slips between her thighs, and I find her slick with want. Two fingers slide into her heat, and she hums, a low, satisfied vibration that travels through my entire body. When my other hand connects with her backside in another firm smack, her inner muscles clench around my fingers.
"Such a naughty girl, hm?"
Her answering whimper holds notes of genuine apology mixed with pure desire. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, you will be." The promise tastes like victory in my mouth.
I release her long enough to unfasten my trousers, and my cock springs free, already weeping at the tip.
The sight of her bent over the fountain, skirts rucked up around her waist, does things to my control I should be ashamed of but feel only fierce satisfaction for.
She turns her head enough to see me, her hazel eyes dark with anticipation.
I guide myself to her entrance, pressing against her slickness before driving home in a single fluid motion that steals the breath from both our lungs. My hand tangles in her hair, pulling just enough to arch her back.
"Are you ready for your punishment?"
Her head bobs in a frantic nod, and I deliver another sharp slap to her reddening flesh. "Use your words, sweet girl."
The sound she makes is half moan, half sob. "I'm ready, Master." She pushes back against me, her body begging for more even as her words echo through the orchard. "Punish me."
That's all the invitation I need.
I set a brutal pace from the first thrust, driving deep and leaving no part of her untouched. Her cries echo through the trees, music to my ears.
"So wet for me." My voice drops into a rough growl as I pound into her relentlessly. "Dripping like the little slut you are. Couldn't wait to have me inside you, could you?"
Her reply dissolves into incoherent sounds, her knuckles white where they grip the fountain's edge.
"I asked you a question." I slow my thrusts just enough to make her ache for more. "Couldn't wait, could you?"
"No, Master." She grinds back against me, taking me deeper still. "I couldn't wait."
"And whose pussy is this?" I slam into her again, the vulgarity sharp against the pastoral backdrop.
"Yours!" Her hips buck against mine as pleasure builds between us.
"And who do you belong to?"
"To you!" Her words become a litany, each one punctuated by my thrusts. "Only to you."
When her climax hits, it ripples through her in waves so hard that she can't even keep herself up.
As her knees buckle, I catch her before she can collapse. My arms scoop under her thighs and shoulders, and I carry her the few steps to the moss carpet beneath a massive tree. The soft ground yields beneath us, fragrant and cool after the sun-warmed stone.
"No," I murmur against the pulse fluttering beneath her jaw. "You don't get to faint until I've had my fill."
Her dress tears beneath my hands—fabric gives way with a satisfying rip that exposes the pale swell of her breasts to the orchard air.
The sound echoes through the quiet clearing, a declaration of possession more potent than any vow.
I don't hesitate; I lower my mouth to her nipple and take it between my teeth with enough pressure to make her cry out.
She arches against the moss, hips lifting from the ground in silent demand. "Zerion."
It's my name on her lips. Always my name.
My fingers dig into her hips as I position myself between her thighs. "Mine."
I force my cock back inside her like a greedy animal that can't stop rutting, each thrust deeper than the last, marking her in ways that go beyond the physical. She belongs to me—flesh, bone, and soul—and I'll spend the rest of my life proving it.
"I love you, my sweet girl," I tell her between strokes that steal her breath and make stars dance behind my own eyes.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, her nails pricking through the fine fabric of my coat. "I love you, Zerion."
She whispers the words against my neck like a secret prayer, and something in my chest tightens in a way I’ve grown accustomed to over these past years—this strange, tender ache that only she can create. My hands frame her face, forcing her to meet my gaze as I drive into her again.
"Again," I command, watching her eyes darken with pleasure.
"I love you." Her voice breaks on the last word as her body arches beneath mine, her hips lifting to meet each thrust.
She comes again in a shuddering wave that tightens around me, pulling another climax from my own control.
The release rolls through me in waves so violent my vision whites at the edges.
I fill her with every drop I possess, claiming her in the most primitive way I know—marking her as mine, branding her with the proof of my desire.
We collapse together on the moss, my weight pressing her into the soft ground. My forehead rests against hers, our breaths mingling in the quiet orchard air. For several heartbeats, there’s only the sound of our breathing and the distant call of birds returning to their branches.
Kessara’s fingers trace slow patterns along my spine, tracing the sweat-dampened fabric of my shirt. Her voice, when it comes, is softened into a lazy murmur.
"Stealing from you was the best choice I ever made."
The chuckle that rumbles through my chest feels foreign and familiar all at once—a sound that has become more common since she walked into my life. "You stole my fruit, my patience, and my peace of mind."
"And your heart." Her lips curve against my collarbone.
"That most of all." I shift enough to pull her against my side, her head finding its place on my chest. "And here I thought I was just apprehending a thief."
She laughs, shaking her head.
"Come." I take her hand, lacing our fingers together. "Halvren will have dinner ready soon, and if we're late, Tobin will eat everything before we arrive."
"Some things never change."
"Thank the gods for that."